Granite Countertops
by nevertouchtheground
Summary: As Kurt prepares to sell the house he and Blaine have lived in all their lives, something is holding him back and preventing him from letting go. If only his husband could remember who he is and help him through this difficult choice.


"And we'll get granite countertops; those are always so attractive to potential buyers. They'll be snatching the house up after only seeing one room!"

It's been going on like this for an hour, probably longer. Room after room after room. Change after change after change.

After all the time I've spent in this house, I honestly never imagined myself in this position. In this kitchen, I see Blaine and I making pancakes with the twins, Haley and Lanni, the girls begging for more and more chocolate chips. I see Blaine drinking his medium drip on a lazy Sunday afternoon, the football game on and the girls doing their homework at the kitchen table. I see us all around the table for our Friday night dinners, my Dad turning to smile at Blaine as the twins chat on and on about their college acceptances. Never once did I see myself plotting the total upheaval of this room, the house, and everything that I have come to know so well over the course of my existence.

It's not as if I'm against change all together. If I was, I wouldn't be selling my house. But it's time, and I know I can't put it off any longer.

"Don't you think that granite will look lovely in here, Mr. Hummel-Anderson?" coos the saleswoman, whose name I forgot somewhere between the planned alterations for the master bedroom and the construction of an in-ground pool that will add the perfect "WOW!" factor to the backyard. She turns to Blaine, beaming with excitement and hoping for a reciprocal reaction from him.

But Blaine simply nods and continues to look around, attempting to take in the space around him. If you saw him now, you would never guess that he lived in this house for decades, loved his husband under this roof, and raised his children here. These rooms have become a foreign location, and I can give Alzheimer's all of the credit.

Memories are something most people take for granted, but not me, not anymore. Watching this disease slowly destroys my husband's grasp of who he is probably does that to a person. And now, as we come to the end of our lovely remodeling tour, one that Blaine won't remember in the slightest, these facts seems to hit me more than ever.

"So that's all of it, right?"

I shake myself out of my trance with expertise; I've been tuning her out all afternoon, and am getting pretty good at pretending to know what's going on.

"What? Oh yes, that's everything," I reply, trying to at least appear interested.

"Great!" her overly cheery voice booms "So now we'll just sit down and go over the paperwork. Do you think I could borrow your computer to…"

"Mrs….Allen," I cut her off with a name I hope is hers, but she just smiles brightly, not noticing my hesitation, "Do you think we could continue another day? The changes look great, but Blaine is exhausted and I have to get him back to the house before 6 for his medicine." I glance at my watch: 5:37. Hopefully we'll make it in time.

"Absolutely! - Take a second copy of my card just for safe keeping," she exclaims, shoving a small index-sized card in my hand, my fingers immediately glossing over the raised print of her name. "I'll give you a call in the morning!" I nod, but she is nowhere near finished, "And get excited; by this time next week, this place will be off your hands." She leans down to grab her briefcase, a flimsy black thing that cannot be holding more than four pieces of paper. As she leaves, she flips her dusty brown hair over her shoulder, gives my hand a soft pat, and hurries out the door, closing it lightly behind her.

I turn around to face my husband, who is picking absentmindedly at a lose string on his cashmere sweater. Feeling my glance on him, he looks up and our eyes meet; glossy blue and soft hazel mix instantly.

They are the same eyes I have always looked at; the eyes that I connected with instantly on that staircase so many years ago; the eyes that told me they loved me in our coffee shop, beaming with joy at the amazing realization; the eyes that were filled with excitement and joy as we traversed Central Park for the first time. That sparkle behind them has faded, and has been replaced with a vacancy. Vacancy of our first time, our wedding day, the girls' birth, their weddings, the moment we became Grandpas', and every moment in between; a lifetime of memories, gone.

As we stand in the foyer we have both been in together on innumerable occasions, he smiles at me, probably sensing the fear and sadness in my expression, but clearly having no clue what just took place. That beautiful, comforting smile that has always been there for me warms my heart instantly. In that moment, the atmosphere around us doesn't mean a thing; all that matters is the man in front of me and everything he means to me. If he were entirely here right now, he would look at me and say, "Now Kurt, that woman is ready and willing to make you a fantastic deal on this place, and you shoved her out the door. Get her back in here, make that deal, and move on with your life! It's what I would want for you, for us." He would cup my cheek, and rub away the tears that are cascading down them with his thumb, beaming up at me with a love that has saved me for years and years. A love that defined my life and helped me be the best I can be.

And, as always, he couldn't be more right.

I cross the foyer in three steps and whip the front door open. "Mrs. Allen!" I cry, gazing at the woman situating her briefcase in the backseat of her Civic. She looks up, alarmed, and immediately checks her person for a possession she must have left inside.

"Yes?"

"It turns out that I have his medicine my bag," I lie swiftly, "so we have a little more time than I originally planned. Would you still like to complete the papers?"

She smiles brightly, and practically skips back up the stairs, all thoughts of leaving forgotten.

Maybe I will regret rushing in to this, giving my home over to a million changes and allowing it to be transformed into someone else's, but now is the time. Blaine is not coming back, and keeping this house would be futile. It didn't hold the magic, he did.

Mrs. Allen and I will sign the papers, finalize the deals. I will bid her goodbye, embrace my husband in a hug, and answer his question of, _"Who are you?"_ for the hundredth times while trying to hold back the tears in my eyes. We will drive back to our little apartment together with our play list of songs we have collected over the years humming quietly through the speakers, but Blaine will continue to stare at the passing scenes, unknowing. I'll tuck him in and my lips will linger as I kiss his forehead, taking in the smell of Blaine that will stay with me for always, and settle in beside the man I love.


End file.
